


I know what you smell like

by dabs_into_oblivion



Series: ineffable husbands [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23743501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dabs_into_oblivion/pseuds/dabs_into_oblivion
Summary: Snakes smell using their tongues.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: ineffable husbands [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1713622
Comments: 4
Kudos: 84





	I know what you smell like

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by a youtube comment by Naomi Coraggio

Aziraphale is looking at him as though he's grown a second head. Crowley shuts his mouth. Opens it. Shuts it again. "What?" he demands, roughly.

"You know what I smell like," says his angel -- he's really got it bad, hasn't he -- leaning forward almost imperceptibly. "Crowley, how do serpents smell things?"

Oh. Oh, no. Crowley glances around frantically, trying to plan an escape route, and of course comes up with nothing. He glowers from behind his sunglasses and mutters, "With our tongues."

"Ah." Aziraphale leans back in his seat, satisfied. "I eagerly await your explanation."

Crowley's hands tighten into fists. He's enjoying this, that angelic bastard, sitting there with that smug smile on his mouth that Crowley wants to kiss until it isn't smiling anymore --

"Crowley?"

"Fine! Fine. I mmmmrrgbdnnn."

Aziraphale stifles a chuckle. "What was that, my dear?"

 _My dear._ Crowley's brain short-circuits for a moment. He shakes himself out of it. "I _may have_ licked things you've touched. Possibly." Absolutely. "A few times." Many times. "And, y'know, I can taste you on the air." _Shut up, Crowley._ "S'not as strong, but it gives one a sense all the same."

Aziraphale nods thoughtfully. "And why -- why did you lick things I'd touched?" His voice is softer, intimate, and Crowley finds, to his utter chagrin, that he cannot look away from the angel's deep blue eyes.

In an effort to be nonchalant, he greatly overdoes his shrug as he says, "Had to know. For the Arrangement. Didn't want your Head Office sending me a different angel in your body and me not knowing."

"Oh," says Aziraphale, "I smell different from other angels?"

"Yes -- yes," Crowley stutters, aware that he is on the edge of accidentally letting something _very personal and important and dangerous_ slip. "You smell, oh, I don't know, like the Garden."

There's a slight pause. Aziraphale inspects his teacup. "You smell like the Garden, too," he tells the saucer.

Crowley shudders. Not an unpleasant shudder; an anticipatory one. "I do?" He lifts a hand, hesitates, glances around; there is no one threatening to disturb them, so he pulls his glasses down his nose before he can change his mind.

Aziraphale looks back up at him, and suddenly Crowley can _feel_ the last 6,000 years melting away. "You do," he says, and nothing else has ever mattered because Crowley knows what his angel is really saying, and so he reaches across the table and takes Aziraphale's hands in his and just holds them while they look and look and look at each other.


End file.
